Scarlet
by Shini no Miko
Summary: Mille, a dancer, is brought to his knees by the connivings of a mysterious stranger who is more than he seems... Yaoi, AU, eventual violence.
1. Prologue

  
  
  


Prologue  
  
  
_  
His waxen wings did mount above his reach  
And melting, heavens conspired his overthrow.  
For, falling to devilish exercise...  
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;  
Nothing so sweet as magic to him,  
Which he prefers to his cheifest bliss...  
  
_Chorus, _Doctor Faustus, Act 1,_ by Christopher Marlow  
  
  


  
Sometimes, although we may try with a passion, we cannot resist the influence of the strongest forces in life. War, hatred, lust, greed, death, and, perhaps most importantly, love, pull us into their depths and we can do nothing but be dragged under. Some of us survive, and come up spitting out water as we thankfully embrace the ground. Others of us simply drown, the vortex too strong.  
  
I am sitting at my lover's grave, underneath the bright autumn sun. The leaves are red and the air is crisp and cool. The simple cemetary is completely silent beyond the sound of my own breathing. I light a stick of sandalwood incense atop the flat, dark grave marker.  
He always liked the spicey scent, and I can only hope that it reaches him and gives him comfort in whatever hell he is in now. Because I have no doubt that he is suffering an eternity of torture for his actions here on Earth. I cannot say that I wished it upon him, but there is no denying that he probably deserved it.  
My lover, although he was beautiful, and talented, was not always the most intelligent person. He had a tendency towards rash behavior, and he would often let his vanity control his decisions. Not that I can say it was a total fault, because it was his vanity that inspired him to excell at all he did, and it was his vanity that led him to me. For that, and that alone, I cannot complain.  
Unfortunately, it was also his vanity that caused his death. But... Perhaps it was not so much his vanity as it was the fear of death that hung about his subconscious like a shadow. I shall never truly know, because now he is dead and gone, and I hope, for the sake of my soul, that I will never see him again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 1

  
  
  


Part One  
  
  


  
In a time not yet so well-enfolded in the darkness of the past, there was a beautiful young man who was a principle dancer in the Roya Ballet. He was acclaimed all over the world for his skill, his grace, and his heart-breaking beauty. Anyone who had ever watched him dance always said it was like he as flying, floating inches above the ground on wings of pure wind.   
This young man was very proud of his appearance, and he made no excuses for his beauty. He kept his hair long, so that it fell to his waist in a curling, violet mass. Not only did his hair style serve to enhance his striking beauty, but, when he danced, it followed him and swirled around him like a cloud at sunset made into gossamer.  
This handsome youth, whose name was Mille, lived with his lover in a small apartment near the Ballet. Everyone was jealous of the young man's lover, who was just as handsome as the dancer, and held Mille's heart in the palm of his hand.  
Mille once said of his lover, in a letter to a composer friend, There are two things that move me in life - music, and love. The first can only touch my feet, but the second sways my soul. Suffice to say, the two men were hopelessly in love.  
But nothing can be completely without faults. They would have heated quarrels, usually initiated by Mille, who was, by far, more fiery than Marron, his lover. These quarrels often culminated with the young dancer storming out of their apartments in an indignant huff, or, on occasion, one of the two ending up in tears. The tears and angry words didn't matter one bit to either of them, though, and they stayed together through thick and thin.  
However, it was on the eve of one of these such quarrels that the beginnings of the end began to creep into the dancer's tenuous world.  
  
  
The fabric of the world is ephemeral, like gossamer, ready to dissolve at the slightest breath of wind.  
Mille laughed melodically, and rolled his glass between the palms of his two hands. You're a wise man, my friend, he said to the strong, blond man to his left. He was in the misty, glimmering no man's land between sobriety and drunkeness where flirtation and conversation seem like the same thing, and beauty bleeds itself into the shadows of chaos.  
I suppose you could say that I've had years of practice, the tall stranger replied, staring straight at the dancer's slightly flushed face.  
Oh? How so?  
It's of no real consequence... Suffice to say that I know what I know from first-hand experience. He smiled slightly at the young man.  
It's so true... Life always seems like something we are doomed to drag ourselves through until here is that little bit of light that saves us from drowning. Do you know what I'm talking about?  
The blonde man studied Mille closely. I do.  
The violet-haired man laughed again. It used to be that I wasn't afraid to die... When I was young, there was no fright in my mind regarding my ultimate end...  
The young are always fearless, was the reply.  
Mille shook his head slowly, contemplatively. It was more than just the ignorance of my own mortality... It used to be that I had nothing left holding me to this world.   
The large man at his side let out a sympathetic sigh. The cycle of despair and bliss... I know it well enough. And now, he hazarded, you have something tying you to this earthly plane.  
Mille looked into the drink he held between his two palms. I do. His shoulders shrugged slightly in what might have been a short, silent laugh. Sometimes I don't know whether to be glad or... sorry...  
How so?  
He paused to take a sip of his drink, swallowing and savoring the cool spice of the red liquor. Now I can't ever be free to die. Now I have things to be afraid of...  
That can be remedied... The blonde man reached out and tucked his finger under Mille's chin, lifting his face up.   
Who are you? Mille murmured, the blonde's face only a few inches away from his own. Mille felt the night air against his skin, but couldn't remember when they had gone outside. The bar, the patrons, the noise of human existance seemed a distant memory...  
If you want to call me something... Gateau will suffice.  
he whispered as the other man's lips descended on his. This kiss only lasted a few seconds, but something strange and hot seared itself into Mille's brain so strongly that, even after they had parted, he could still feel the man's lips on his mouth.  
Gateau smiled gently and the shorter man. Once again, the blonde closed the space between them, whispering in Mille's ear. I'm not rich, he murmured, his breath cool on Mille's heated skin, and I'm not as handsome as you may be, but I can offer you the world... The entire world, and all of _time_, can stand at your feet, waiting for your command... Think of what you most want...  
Then he pulled back, straightening to his full height, and smiled down at the thin dancer in a friendly way. I'm a cobbler. My shop is on South Street, you can't miss it. When you think of what it is you most want, come there. I'd like to know what it is you want.  
And, with that, like magic, the tall, blue-eyed man was gone, no final contact, no goodbye, just a breath of warm air against his neck.  
Oh, gods, Mille murmured, rubbing his hand across his bare collarbone, trying to get his bearings.  
He looked up, and realized he was standing under the giant cherry tree beneath which he had often spent his lunch breaks with Marron. He recognized the place to be in one of the city's tiny parks, not even a half a block away from the Opera.  
He brushed his fingertips over his still-heated lips, and looked warily around the empty park. A figure caught his eye, but it was much too slender to be the sturdy cobbler, Gateau. And it was running towards him, not walking away as Gateau would have been. And it was calling out his name... In Marron's voice.  
Mille! Oh, thank goodness I found you. Marron finally reached his lover, and wasted no time in enfolding Mille in a warm embrace. He spread tiny kisses across the creamy skin of Mille's face. I'm so sorry... I didn't expect you to leave like that... You're always back much sooner...   
I'm sorry, Mille said, sounding, even to his own ears, hollow.  
But Marron didn't notice. He was too busy pressing his I love you's into Mille's soft hair and smoothing his hands across his lover's back.  
Let's go home, the dancer said, pulling away from his lover's embrace, and taking Marron's hand.  
Marron sighed thankfully, and they started to walk home.  
  
In bed that night, with one of Marron's thin arms wrapped around his naked waist, Mille couldn't help but feel trapped.  
It wasn't that he didn't love Marron, he told himself. It wasn't even that Gateau was any threat to his relationship with the dark-haired man... It was Gateau's offer...  
_Immortality... All of time at my feet, awaiting my command..._ _Perfection..._  
Marron shifted in his sleep, pulling his warm body closer to Mille's colder one. The slender dancer shivered, feeling colder than usual, even with Marron's arms wrapped around him. He felt his lover's breath against his neck, through his thick hair.  
_What am I doing?,_ he wondered silently, staring straight ahead. _What am I doing?  
_ Eventually, he fell asleep and dreamed of nothing but a river in his home town that he had often sat by, coloured red by a brilliant sunset.  
  
The next morning, he woke earlier than usual to catch the sunrise staining the sky like watered-down blood.  
He dressed, and, taking his bag of equipment, went to the Ballet.  
He used the skeleton key he had to open one of the back doors and made sure to lock it behind himself. All the other doors were sure to be locked, because the owners of the ballet made the rounds themselves at night, after the janitor had gone. The doors were not, officially, unlocked until the managers arrived at nine o'clock.  
Mille walked quickly in the direction of his dressing room, opening each door and locking it in his wake. After unlocking and locking numerous doors and ascending various flights of stairs, he found himself in his own, small, private quarters in the heart of the Ballet.   
He changed quickly into a pair of tights, a long-sleeved leotard, and legwarmers. Mille tied his long hair into a full bun at the back of his head. Seating himself on the divan, Mille tied on the pair of well-worn, cream-pink toe shoes that he wore for practice. With his bag over his shoulder, he left the dressing room, and padded quietly through the halls, always careful to lock the doors behind himself as he went.  
He arrived in the largest of the practice rooms just as the golden-red sunlight was beginning to filter into the space in earnest. Mirrors lined four of the walls, and the last wall, the one that faced out into the square, was completely composed of full-length windows. There was a piano in the back left corner, where they were supplied with music during regular practice.  
Mille dropped his supply bag by the door, and sat down on the floor near one of the walls to begin stretching. Shortly, he stood up again and began to stretch further, using the barre. He pushed his muscles as far as they would go, feeling especially limber and free.  
After having sufficiently warmed up, the young dancer moved gracefully away from the barre and into the middle of the room. He stretched languorously, arching his back and raising his arms into the air in a great, sweeping motion, rolling his neck from side to side shortly. Mille pulled back one of his legs and positioned himself in the beginning stance for the piece he was working on at the moment. His left leg was bent, in its half of first position, while the right leg was swept back, bringing him to a partial bow. His left arm was bent in front of him, as though he were cradling something to his chest, the other arm stretched out, reaching gracefully for the ground.  
Hearing the music in his head, Mille slowly pulled himself up onto his toes, and spun backwards in the beginning of a slow, liquid dance. The only sounds as he moved across the studio were those of his rythmic breathing and the tap of the wooden-toed shoes on the polished hardwood flor. He swept smoothly across the room, meting out his steps carefully. As the music in his mind began to speed up, Mille's movements also increased. As the short piece came to an end, Mille found himself in the familiar final twirl, and lifted himself onto one foot, on pointe. The other leg stretched out behind him and he took the last remnants of the spin and lowered himself towards the ground. When he finally came to a stop, he was balanced on his flat left foot, his right stretced out behind him, lifting into the air, his arms mimicking the positions of his legs.  
He straightened, schooling his slightly harsh breath, and paused for a moment. Mille sensed another presense in the sun-lit room, and slowly turned to face the door, although he already knew who was watching him from the millions of reflections that graced the walls.


	3. Chapter 2

  
  
  


Part Two  
  
  
  


That was beautiful, the blonde man said, clapping around the thorny, blood-red rose he held in his left hand.  
Mille didn't know whether to be frightened or pleased, but... He walked towards Gateau, looking coyly at the taller man.   
I brought you this, Gateau said, handing him the rose, as a token of my affection.  
It's lovely... my favorite colour. Mille smiled gently at the blonde, smelling the rose.   
You're bleeding, Gateau commented calmly. Mille looked down at his pale, delicate hands in shock to see that, indeed, he had pricked one of his fingers on the flower's thorns. He watched as the strong man withdrew a red-embroidered handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, and pressed it to his injured hand.  
He was suddenly aware how close Gateau's large frame was to his own slight form. He felt his knees weaken strangely, and he collapsed against the blonde. A blush spread across his cheeks as Gateau held him to his chest.  
But... How did you get in here? He had locked all the doors... Hadn't he?  
Through the door. They were all open.  
Mille bit back a gasp that was half-sob. I must be going crazy... he murmured.  
Do you think so? Gateau was stroking his hair, and Mille caught a waft of a strong rose scent, mingled with a sandalwood.  
Who are you? he whispered into the rust-coloured cloth of Gateau's jacket.  
You already know that, the enchanting man answered.  
Why do I feel as though I know you? Mille felt as though he were paralyzed. He could neither move away from the man, nor pull him closer. He didn't know what he wanted anymore...  
Oh, everyone knows me... It is near impossible to live and not know my name.  
For some reason, Mille didn't question the man's cryptic answer. Instead, he tried to press himself closer to the soft fabric of Gateau's surcoat, tried to breath in as much of that heady scent as he could.  
Suddenly, it dawned upon him what he was doing, where he was... He pulled back carefully, and stepped away from the blue-eyed man. I mustn't... You should not be here. The managers will be here any moment. This - this is improper.  
Improper, indeed, Gateau said, cupping Mille's cheek with one of his large, calloused hands. Bringing his face closer to the dancer's, he continued, I heard you calling out to me last night... I know you are deciding what you will ask of me.  
I'm not! Mille cried weakly, trying, in vain, to find the strength to raise his arm and push this man away.  
The cobbler smiled, although it was more of a smirk, and closed even more of the distance between their faces. Don't deny it, my little muse... I will have you... all of you... and you are powerless to stop me.  
The final space between their lips was lost, and Gateau kissed the lithe dancer once again, stealing away Mille's breath, and causing his eyes to slide shut.  
When he recovered from their embrace, he found himself standing alone in the studio, the red light fading into pale gold sunshine.  
  
Feeling sick, Mille hurried away from the practice room. He took out his keys, but, much to his horror, as he went from the studio to his dressing room, he found each and every door in his path unlocked, just as Gateau had said. By the time he reached his small dressing room, he was feeling more ill than before, and hastily changed into his civilian clothes. He went back through the Opera and made sure that each one of the doors was tightly locked.  
Having secured all the locks with shaking hands, he left.   
The violet-haired dancer hurried back to his apartment. When he arrived, he found Marron sitting at their dining table, drinking a cup of tea and scribbling in his journal.  
Oh, you're back. I thought you'd gone in for the day, Marron said. He looked up, and the pleased smile was replaced by a look of concern. You look pale. Are you ill? The dark-haired man stood, and approached his lover.  
Mille did not move towards Marron, but just stood in the doorway biting his bottom lip. Yes. I-I'm not feeling well.  
Marron reached out one pale, long-fingered hand to feel the dancer's forehead. You've a fever... You're burning up. Come, he said gently, hooking his arm around Mille's waist, we shall put you to bed, and I'll send a message to the Opera telling them that you won't be in today.  
Mille allowed himself to be guided into their bedroom and settled onto the canopied bed. Marron fussed over him, undressing him and tucking him in, before going to write the note for the managers of the Ballet.  
Mille lay there in bed, staring at the cream cloth draped above him. He sighed.   
_Dear God, what am I doing?  
_Marron came back presently, to find his lover staring morbidly up at the canopy. As it turns out, I'll deliver the message myself. I've need to go out and get a few things, ink included. All right?  
The dancer nodded, and allowed Marron to bed over and kiss him on the forehead. I'll make some tea first, Marron said. Does that sound nice?  
Mmm, yes, Mille said into his pillow. He rolled over, so that his back was facing Marron. Marron stood by the bedside for a moment before walking silently into the kitchen. Mille lay under the blankets, trying to curl up as far onto himself as he could.  
His lover returned again after a short while, and set the tea service on the table next to the bed. Mille didn't even acknowledge the action, just lay there, his eyes closed, trying to school his breathing. Eventually, Marron moved away from the bed.  
I'll be back in a few hours, Marron said, sounding as though he were saying it for his own benefit, instead of Mille's.  
Once Marron had been out of the house for a few painfully long minutes, Mille finally rolled onto his back. Again he stared upwards, his eyes unseeing, focused on some place within himself.  
_What am I doing...? What's going on? Is it my doing, or the world's around me...?_  
Before he knew what he was really doing, he found himself standing and redressing. He put on black pants and a black shirt, with black stockings and a pair of plain, worn black leather shoes. He threw his heavy, black, woolen cloak over himself, and left the flat with the air of a man fleeing from something.  
_Where am I going?_ he asked himself as he flew down the streets, trying to keep to the shadows of the early-morning city. He soon had his answer, as he found himself heading in the direction of South Street. Even as he walked, he found it impossible to stop his feet. He felt as though he was being pulled by some strong current.  
The area he was flying through was far from high-class, and he found himself fixed with many suspicious glares from men in their suspenders and half-open shirts. The unease he felt only made him want to hurry along, despite his unfortunate destination.  
He stormed through the stone-paved lanes until he reached South Street. The cobbler's shop was, as Gateau had promised, impossible to miss. The store had a marvelous display of all sorts of fine-quality shoes and slippers in its whorled glass front window. He stood there, out in front of the shop, staring at the display for a few long moment, until he caught a flicker of movement inside the store.  
Mille pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside the dim store, pulling the door shut behind him. There was absolutely no one there, no shopkeeper, no apprentice, no... Gateau...  
There was a long, glass counter against the right wall, and shelves and cabinets covered the wall behind it. The left wall was draped with long swathes of leather, silk, and ribbon. Posters advertising brands of cloth and types of soles were tacked up on the walls. There were tables with more exquisite examples of Gateau's craftsmanship, and a set of red, velvet-upholstered mahogany archairs, and a matching footstool, assumably so that customers could si and have their measurements taken. The back of the store was cloaked in shadow, since little light made it back from the front window, but Mille got the impression that there was at least one door on the far wall.  
he called out, his voice bouncing weirdly off all the surfaces, sounding not like an echo, but like a vibration. he said again, more softly, his self-confidence waning.  
There it was again, a slight movement in the shadows at the back of the dark shop, accompanied by a cool breath of air. He gasped quietly at the shock of the cold air against his burning skin. He realized that he was quite feverish.  
You came. The low voice brought him back to the moment, and he lost his bearings once again.  
He stared at Gateau, trying to remember to breath, trying to remember who he was, why he was there. What was Gateau that he had such a painful magnetism? Mille felt as though he could not control himself when he was around the blonde.  
I... did, he said finally.  
He didn't know how Gateau had appeared. He'd not heard a door open, or even the sound of footsteps. It was like Gateau had materialized from the shadows.  
I'm glad. It seemed impossible, again, that the blonde had moved closer without Mille being aware of it. But he was so close now that Mille could scent him. Gateau smelled like both hot and cold at the same time, sensual. Mille couldn't find the strength to protest as Gateau brought his hand to his broad, firm lips and kissed Mille's hand.  
What am I doing here? he asked. He was horrified. Even his voice sounded frail. He knew he was shaking. He noticed absently that Gateau, too, was wearing all black, as opposed to the shades of red and gold Mille had seen him in earlier that day... _God... That feels like years ago..._  
Gateau smiled disarmingly, flashing Mille a view of his brilliant, white teeth. Making your choice, I would imagine. Do you know what it is you most want...? The blonde's voice was perfectly calculated, like some sort of equation.  
_I want..._ Mille couldn't believe he was doing this. He wouldn't let himself do it...  
_I want... _ What about Marron? The Ballet? They would be performing soon!  
_I want..._ But what about himself? _Marron... Oh, God... I'm so sorry..._  
I want... eternity.  
Gateau smiled wolfishly.   
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 3

  
  
  


Part Three  
  
  


His body was shaking, but he didn't know why... All... All he remembered was the extreme sensation, the intensity of the feelings... It had been unlike anything he had ever felt with Marron, or in any of his other affairs, either... Unlike any pain, unlike any sorrow... Unlike everything else he had ever felt. Ever.   
He could not lift himself from the floor... His body was shaking so much that the only way for him to keep from convulsing was to lay flat on the floor...   
_Oh, God...  
_He couldn't say that he was in pain... Nor could he say that he felt good. There was no afterglow, nor any lingering ache, either. There was simply numbness.  
He couldn't remember what had happened. All he knew anymore was the floor, his trembling, and the lingering memory of that explosion of sensation...  
Slowly, he became aware that the floor was not all that was beneath him. He was lying in liquid of some sort, face down in it, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes to see what it was. It was thick, viscous, a little tacky... Not hot against his skin, nor was it cold... It felt the same temperature as the air that was sighing against the back of his neck.  
But, then, the breeze shifted, and he was hit by the coppery, tangy sent of blood. And, slowly but surely, it all came back to him.  
  
Mille gasped in surprise. he asked, bewildered.  
Gateau gave him a patronizing look. Yes, my dear. I'm willing to give you what you want.  
_Oh, my God..._ Mille felt suddenly dizzy, as though the floor were falling out from under him, and there was nothing but unfathomable blackness below.  
Come with me into the back, Gateau said, closing a rough, calloused hand around Mille's thin arm. It's where I service my most favored customers.  
But he couldn't think of any words of protest, even as Gateau pulled him across the space, toward the door at the back of the room. He felt fear welling up, like tears or bile, in the back of his throat. He tried desperately to slow them down, gain some traction. He dragged his feet and fought against their progression, but the taller man was much stronger, and Mille couldn't stop them. He tried to tear the man's fingers from his upper arms, but the grip was like steel. he cried.  
Suddenly, Gateau stopped moving. He pulled Mille close to him, one arm going around the dancer's waist. He leaned down low, and Mille's breath caught when he saw the dangerous edge in his blue eyes. You say, Gateau said in a voice that might have been seductive, had it not been laced with a threat. His lips brushed the skin of Mille's cheek as he spoke. You think you can stop me with words alone...? There is no, No,' for you anymore, only what I want, do you see? To stop me, you would have to stop yourself first... He pressed a searing kiss onto Mille's mouth, and Mille felt caught between desire and revulsion. This man was compromising him, threatening him... tearing him apart, and making him feel... whole. He felt sick.  
Before he could even understand what was happening, the blond had ripped away his mouth, and was dragging the other man through the store again.  
Mille tried to scream, but he found himself mute, unable to cry out. He didn't know whether it was out of fear, or from something the taller man had done, but when he opened his mouth, he found he could make no sound.  
Gateau turned around, and smiled darkly at the golden-eyed dancer. Isn't it beautiful...? You're totally trapped within yourself - and it's all your fault.  
The violet-haired man's breath wouldn't come to him and he shook his head furiously, still trying to stall their descent into hell.  
_I didn't do this..._ he thought to himself. _I didn't do this! I could never have seen this coming! I didn't know! I don't want _this_! Oh, God...  
Don't call on Him, here, lover..._ The voice echoed, shadowy, through his mind, and his body spasmed with shock. Gateau was speaking directly into his mind. _Every man who deals with me has brought it upon himself... It is your very own fault._  
The tall man flung open the heavy, wooden door at the back of the shoe shop, and pulled Mille into the dark room. He slammed the door shut behind himself as though the thick, intricately carved panel weighed nothing.  
Mille continued to attempt to scream, coming up with nothing but hissing gasps. He felt as though his throat were completely empty, as though whatever magic allowed him to speak had been ripped from his body.  
_Oh, God..._ Why hadn't he felt this before? Where had this overpowering terror been in the bar? Under the tree? In the dance hall? Why hadn't he felt it then? What had he been thinking? Why had to even come to Gateau...? What had the man promised him that he didn't already have - that he actually wanted?  
Poor little boy... Gateau crooned softly. So lost.  
The room he had pulled them into was pitch black. Mille was beginning to hyperventilate in the suffocating darkness. He could feel the darkness wrapping its soft fingers around his throat, pushing against his eyes, daring him to close them.  
_If you close them now, who's to say that, when you open them again, this will all have been just a dream? Who's to say that, in this blackness, sleep if any different from death?_  
_Oh, please...!_  
Gateau released his hold on the dancer's arm, and lit a match. Its light burned through Mille's entire being with its intensity. It felt like it had been a thousand years since he'd seen real sunlight... Even the cobbler's shop seems a distant memory.  
_What are you going to do?_ He worked his mouth to try to force the question from his quivering lips, but the words would not come... Would they ever come again?  
I have found, lover, that it is better when those outside cannot hear you scream... That way, Gateau said, lighting a lantern, no one will disturb our echange.   
_Exchange?!_ No, there had never been any talk of exchange before - Only... Gateau had never wanted anything in return. _That's why it was so... Oh, God..._ He couldn't think straight, couldn't put his thoughts together. It felt as though he were staring at a page in a book, just staring, and no sense could be made of the words before him because they were blurring together.  
The illumination taken care of, Gateau turned back to the shaking dancer, a dark, menacing gleam in his blue eyes. He traced his fingertips across Mille's cheek in a gentle gesture. And you want me to give you what you want, don't you?  
The moment Gateau's skin touched his, Mille felt some sick change in his mind, and all of his fear drained from his body. His body stopped shaking. _Like in the cold..._ he thought to himself. _When you stop tensing your jaw, you don't shiver any longer..._ He felt strangely peaceful.  
Yes, my beautiful little boy... Gateau smiled slyly, leaning down towards Mille's face. Give in to me...  
_Yes..._  
I'll give you what it is you want...  
_Yes..._  
  
And then it had happened. It was the single most intense, excruciating thing he had ever experienced... Pleasure so long-building that it was agony, a wave that continued to swell, refusing to break, sunlight so bright it blinded, sorrow so great he felt he would shatter.   
He thought of the moment where, minutely, he had felt as though he couldn't keep living for another second. It was an strong, brief sensation, a mixture of ennui and desperation. Now he felt it, magnified a thousand-fold, pulsing through his entire body, his skin thrumming with its power. He felt, every second, that he would die the next moment, and yet, through some terrible power, he was sustained.  
It was Gateau. This _force_ was Gateau. Gateau was holding him up, keeping him alive, and, at the same time, he was the one killing him. A great tremor went through Mille's body, and he suddenly looked down.  
A long, narrow sword had been pushed through his chest, right through his heart. He could feel, suddenly, his heart contracting wildly around the cold blade, and it sent chills up his spine. He was sweating, crying, panting, shaking in Gateau's arm.  
He wasn't dying. He was continuing. He was changing... He could feel himself shifting, feel things bleeding out of him and other things flowing back in to take the place of what he was losing. He couldn't stop himself from shuddering. His mouth was shaking and gaping as he continued to try to form words...  
It didn't hurt, it wasn't pleasurable. It was just so much that it was unbearable.  
_Oh, God! Please... Just make it end...!_  
It's coming, Gateau whispered seductively in his ear.   
_Eternity...!_  
Then blackness filled him, hotly, totally. He fell back and ceased to feel.  
  
Ah, lover... You're awake. It's about time.  
He felt the shuddering subside as the man neared him. It was like a drug that he craved, this man's presence. He sighed, and let his body go blessedly limp.  
Do you feel it now? Do you feel your potentiality... for... everything?  
He stopped reveling in the man's deep, soothing voice and obeyed the unspoken command. He listened to himself, searched within himself to find it. And there it was... What he had always wanted -  
Safety. Love. Promise. Happiness. Every sunset to come. Every sunset past. Every thought, every scent, every husband, every wife... Every life...  
It was everything he wanted and so much more. He hadn't known he could feel so full... _This was what it is like to be God.  
_Yes, lovely... This... is...  
_Eternity._  
  


  
  
  



End file.
